Rock, Snow and Blood
by dislocation
Summary: Private Tracey Smith's life has been a series of bad calls and stupid-ass decisions. So when Mal's bullet, in the end, doesn't have his name written on it, he figures he's been given a second chance. One that he will not let go to waste. And becoming a lawman in his small home planet seems like a step in the right direction. For now.


Author's note: Obviously, I don't own Firefly.

* * *

**The Cold Air of St. Albans**

What's the point of having one's heart in the right place if they always screw things up?

It's the first question to enter Tracey Smith's head as he wakes up, rubbing his face with a groan. The thought hovering over his head since he set foot on St. Albans. Hell, it has been plaguing him every day since the war ended.

As if suffering a crushing defeat to the Alliance seven years ago wasn't bad enough.

A faint sound of clinking glass reaches his ears and he lowers his hands, taking one true look at where he is. Tracey is lying face-down on a table in a bar, a half-finished bottle of whiskey – or some other drink, he can't remember what he was actually drinking and he's not particularly keen on taking a sip right now to find out – next to him. The first thing Tracey does is sit up, groaning again when the ceiling spins, and screws the bottle shut, putting it on the floor. Covering a yawn with the back of his hand, Tracey frowns at the liquor stain on his shirt and gives the bar another sweep of his eyes.

The man behind the bar – the same ol' Joe that was there back when Tracey was a kid – nods at him and goes back to cleaning his glasses. Tracey is not the only patron who seemed to spend the night; there are three more men still asleep, snoring loudly, and one stumbling out of the bar and into the cold outside.

Joe's nice enough of a man to let the poor sods to spend the night and cruel enough to wake them all up by walking outside, leaving the door ajar and firing his shotgun into the air if some of the idiots are still asleep by midday. He's also a man that can keep any secret and will gladly keep a few things safe for you if needed and Tracey had left a few of his personal things at his and found that the man, even after a decade, still had them safely tucked away in the back room.

The floor is swimming and a headache begins to pound away at Tracey's head. He stumbles into the bathroom and nearly smashes his head into the mirror, grabbing hold of the sink at the last moment. He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head, taking in a deep breath.

His thoughts take him to the day before and he tries to shut them out, but they're as stubborn as his old Sarge and even more vivid behind closed eyes.

A part of him, a small part, wishes that Mal's bullet had killed him. It almost did after all, stopped his heart beating for a second there, but not long enough. Simon – was that the fancy doc's name? – rushed in and saved his life before his soul could be taken wherever it is that the dead go in this empty, Godless 'Verse.

When Serenity dropped him off at St. Albans, Tracy could barely look Mal or Zoe in the face, shame filling him up to the very brim until he felt like he was going to explode. But he didn't burst – instead the shame trickled down his cheeks in a form of angry tears. He didn't care much for what others thought, even if he did say sorry and they said it was alright while not really meaning it, it was Zoe and Mal's opinion that mattered. He pretended that it didn't but it did. It still does. The two saved his life more times during the war than he can count. So many times that he never even bothered to keep count.

He did feel sorry for threatening Kaylee, though, he really did. The girl was nice enough to look after him and all he did to repay her was to wave a gun around with his arm around her throat – her fault for trusting strange men, really.

And after all that he did, trying to trick Mal and Zoe into cleaning up his mess and threaten their crew, they could have left him to bleed out. They could have dropped him into the black and he wouldn't have blamed them. But they didn't. They didn't protest when the doc dragged him to the infirmary and fixed him up good. Took the bullets out, patched him up, and even gave him something to help with the pain.

At others' questioning looks the fancy young man said something about how some guys find it hard to adjust after the war. That something changes in their heads. They start seeing things. Some disorder to do with stress. But Tracey didn't know what he meant or what in the hell he was talking about because he was all doped up on those painkillers that made the infirmary's ceiling look like one of those pretty paintings on church windows.

Tracey could barely lift his eyes from the snowy ground when Mal patted his shoulder, squeezing it a tad too hard, and told him to be a good kid. To do good. Because they didn't lose the war for him to turn out the way he is. He's young, with a whole life ahead of him. He can still turn it around and make something of himself. Something that doesn't involve crime – Tracey wanted to tell Mal it was a bit hypocritical but thought better of it. Zoe didn't say anything, but Tracey could feel her gaze burn into him. He wasn't a stranger to it, but there was something new that wasn't there before. Without as much as a single look he still recognised it as pity and his hands clenched into fists. He nodded at both his war buddies – or perhaps, not buddies now since he's pretty sure he's never welcomed in their sight again – but still didn't look up. Only when Serenity began to take off did he raise his eyes and watched as the old ship flew off and disappeared into the sky, blinking like a star.

The make is Firefly and Tracey thinks it couldn't fit it better, and he hadn't seen a live firefly in his life.

As he exists the bathroom, his face is cleaner and the collar of his shirt is slightly damp. He reaches a table and is about to drop into a seat, half set on finishing that bottle of whiskey when a familiar voice stops him.

"Lo and behold, how the mighty have fallen."

A smile spreads across Tracey's lips and he slowly turns to face the owner of the familiar voice. Amelia Edmonson looks exactly like he remembers, except she's taller and her hair is long and falling around her shoulders, falling out of the braid it was pulled into that morning. Red hair that contrasts with her pale skin and eyes and reminds him of those strawberry-flavoured sweets that businessmen on shiny ships would bring to their small planet as means to gain friends in the community.

But his eyes don't linger on her hair for long, as it also reminds him of laser fire, and the blood seeping into his wine-coloured shirt as he's hiding behind old ruins that mean nothing to him.

She used to be a skinny girl growing up, but now clothes hang on her nicely in a way that Tracy appreciates. She looks good. There's bags under her eyes and her shoulders look like they're carrying the weight of the entire 'Verse, but she looks good. Ten years did her justice.

"Lily," he smiles, taking a step forward. "_How Ju Bu Jian?"_

When he calls her by that name, she grins and looks pleased. But she doesn't move to hug him like she used to and Tracey tries to piece together why that would be. He is distracted when she leans on the wall with one shoulder and crosses her arms. His eyes watch the movement like a hawk and he is relieved to see that the action is relaxed and not guarded.

"Spent your first night back attempting to drink yourself to death? Let me guess: wasn't in your schedule to ever come to this old rock again, was it?"

She is right and Tracey is awake enough to read between the lines. Her tone is light but she is worried. He is touched, but his curiosity is stronger. "How did you know I was back?"

"It's a small town, Tracey. Word gets around fast."

He can't argue with that.

Amelia is all smiles as she suddenly reaches to her hip, produces something metal and tosses it to him. A firearm. He catches it without really thinking about it – an instinctive and unconscious move. The weight of the weapon is familiar in his hand and for a fleeting second he is crouching for cover behind a crumbling wall, poking his head out and taking aim, shooting the Alliance soldier down before he could spot him.

The girl he grew up with doesn't know what he's thinking and he is thankful. But then the reality comes crashing down and he is giving her a questioning look, asking why she just handed him a gun. Amelia is smiling coyly and walking backwards as she speaks.

"Buckle up, Blue Eyes, and get your effects. We got work to do." That's all she says before she turns to leave, waving him over to go with her.

Tracey is about to follow when ol' Joe calls his name. Tracey turns and again something dark is thrown at him, a light thing that nearly flies over his head. Tracey catches it and then takes a step back as he turns the object over in his hands. It's a cowboy's hat, dark brown in colour and when he looks up Joe's attention is on the counter again which he is wiping down with an old rag. Tracey smiles fondly and walks out of the door.

The moment he steps a foot outside he is blinded by white. The snow looks colder than it is but he still shivers and is glad that Joe offered to let him borrow the thick, warm cardigan. Amelia glances at him over her shoulder and she is laughing. She sees Tracey smoothing back his hair and proudly putting his cowboy hat that he left behind with Joe when he left St. Albans. It still fits perfectly, just like it did when he first picked it off a dead outlaw's head when he was seventeen.

Amelia is walking towards a horse tied nearby as Tracey catches up to her and they fall into a slow, comfortable pace. She glances at him again and laughs again. "You still got that ugly thing?" she asks, her boots crushing the snow blow. It hasn't snowed all night and the cold winds turned porous snowflakes into ice.

Tracey throws her an indignant look, his mouth agape, and scoffs. "You like the hat! You yourself told me that!"

The woman at his side shrugs. "We were dating. I was sparing your feelings."

They reach her horse and the expression of someone gravely insulted is still on Tracey's face when he looks up and sees that they've been approaching a pair of horses, not one. The second one is his. Its coat is white and gets darker the lower it gets. Its hooves, legs, mane and tail as black as the dead rock under all that damned snow they're walking through. Sometimes as a kid he would pretend that there was no ground at all and that St. Albans was one giant snowball that would one day be melted by the sun and leave them adrift in the void.

Amelia's horse is a light brown. The colour of Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds' coat – Tracey can't help but make the comparison.

He turns to Amelia to see her already sitting on her horse's back, smiling down at him smugly. He narrows his eyes, remembering her insult and points his index finger at her face. "That's a lie."

Amelia only smiles wider, taking her reins in her hands as Tracey pats his horse's side and it responds with a greeting, turning towards him and pulling on the rope it's tied to the tree with. It hasn't seen Tracey before, but already recognises him as its new owner. He unties the rope and settles into the saddle as Amelia replies, "Oh, you can tell when I'm lying now?"

Her words are teasing and with a wink she is galloping away, and Tracey can't help but grin, going after her as if this is a race and she is cheating by having started earlier. "Always could."

When the bar is too far away for him to see it clearly, Tracey remembers what Amelia said back at the bar. "What did you mean by work?" There was little work options in St. Albans and all of them made Tracey wish he was still fighting the war.

"I heard you're looking for a job."

Tracey frowns. "I am not here for a job."

"_Shi Ma_? Then why are you back here? You always hated this place." She is right, but he doesn't answer. And when he remains silent, she continues. "We need us an extra lawman."

"You need a what?!" He doesn't realise he had stopped until Amelia turns her horse around and gives him a curious look. Tracey is stumbling over his words, utterly confused. "Why me?"

"You served in the war. Figured you're good with guns and your reflexes are sharp." Tracy raises an eyebrow as he spurs his horse forward but she doesn't notice, urging her own horse back into a lazy trot. "Besides you're smart."

Tracey wants to tell her that she's wrong. That he is stupid, and has been proven to be stupid many times. But when Amelia throws him a smile he realises that she is set on that thought and nothing would change her mind. She is still his Lily, the girl who looks at him and sees a good man.

His heart breaks, for a reason he can't quiet identify, and for the rest of the journey he keeps his face forward and Amelia is polite enough to leave him to his thoughts.

It's a good thing he was born knowing how to lie.

Becoming a lawman is the last thing Tracey wants. It means working for the Alliance – even if their presence was barely felt on the cold planet, it still made the air stink in such a way that turned Tracey's stomach. There's one single Federal Station on the planet and it is one Federal Station too many.

But in this small town, there's not much work, and Tracey's dad made him promise that he will never set foot in a mine, and he realises he doesn't have much of a choice. His family… he is yet to see them. He wonders what his mom and dad think about him being back, or the fact he that fought in the losing side in the war. His little brother should be fifteen now, almost a grown man. Tracey wonders how he turned out to be.

Hopefully nothing like him.

* * *

When Tracy was sixteen he crowed that he wanted his own place. He loved his folk but he wanted something to call his. He found a nice enough cabin that's been abandoned for a few years and a few men helped him fix it up. And they did a fine job.

Tracey stands in front of that cabin now and a part of him doesn't dare to go inside. He's not sure what he's afraid to find. Himself, maybe? A younger, even more foolish and naive version of himself? Enthusiastically proclaiming that he shall crush those who support the Unification under his army boots.

When he finally manages to open the lock, barely budging, he turns over his shoulder to see that Amelia is still on her horse, the creature whining impatiently. Amelia gives him a smile and a nod of her head and Tracey knows that she will not be coming inside with him.

He is not sure whether he is disappointed or relieved. He salutes his redheaded Lily like he would a superior officer and earns a chuckle before she kicks her horse in the sides and is off into the distance, her hair flying in the wind. As snow begins to fall, the snowflakes melt the moment they touch her head, as if instead of red hair they lick fire.

She turns back only once, to call out, "See ya in the mornin', _Shwai."_

Tracey smiles to himself and enters his cabin before she disappears out of sight.

His small home smells like pine trees and the cold wind drifting from the north, and Tracey is hit with a wave of nostalgia that wraps around him like a comfort blanket and clouds his eyes.

The cabin is just like he remembers down to the spacing of the furniture and the pictures on the mantelpiece and the candles littering the room. He doesn't go upstairs but he can guess it's the same, too. It should have been dustier, he observes, and knows that somebody has been looking after it. His family most likely. It's a sweet gesture but it only serves as a reminder of things undone.

There's a small post-card of a sketch depicting Persephone. It's over a decade old and looks it, the white corners stained copper. His Lily had brought it from a traveller that came to St. Albans one night – well, got it for showing the old man around town – and raced to Tracey's to give it him as an early birthday present because she knew that he wanted to leave this cold rock and become someone great. Only while Tracey was a hopeful kid, Lily was all different kinds of delusional and while he held onto that silly dream, she acted like it had already came true overnight.

The memory is bitter and makes his head spin but he can't bring himself to tear the postcard down like he wants to.

Sitting down on the couch, Tracey lets out a heavy sigh and takes off his hat and rests his head against the wall. He digs into his pocket and pulls out the voice recorder that was in his hands back when he was put in that sleep to make him look like he was dead.

He presses a button and lets his voice fill the cold cabin but he can't get past five words of his stuttering self before he stops the recording. Again, shame drowns him, violent waves crashing over his head, and he is swallowing water instead of air.

What a stupid message.

In truth, when he was leaning against the cold metal railing, Mal's hand on his shoulder and Zoe crouching down in front of him, Tracey believed that the 'Verse was going to hand to him what he deserved. That this shaky message will be the last words his family hears. The last words that Amelia hears.

Biting his lip, Tracey closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. Sucks in as much of the St. Albans air as he can because hell, if it's going to poison him then he might as well get it over with since he knows he won't be leaving any time soon. It doesn't calm him down like he wishes, but it helps him make up his mind. He gets up and walks over to the fireplace, coughing and rubbing his hands together. It takes a while to get fire going, and Tracey almost gives up by the time a small spark catches light of the dry wood he tossed inside – he reminds himself to thank whoever kept the place clean during his absence. And when the fire is big and warm and familiar, Tracey looks at the recorder and throws it into the heart of the flames.

He's not certain whether the fire is strong enough to burn it but he guesses it's the thought that counts. As long as that damned device is mixed in with the ashes, he's as close to content as he can get. He sits back on the floor, with his legs crossed underneath him and stares into the fire, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now.

He should be happy, he guesses. He's back in home sweet home, with family and folks that know him well. That didn't judge him when he was a trouble making kid and encouraged him when he was a skinny man with big dreams. Dreams of making a name for himself. A name that would be spoken systems away and be received with respect and memories of heroic deeds. And hey, he has a job offer too. And while he's not too excited about it, money will help and perhaps the time he spends here will make the unsavory folk he double-crossed forget that he ever existed.

Tracey breathes through his nose and lets out an empty laugh, scratching his head. With the fire reflected in them, his eyes are wild.

_Lao Tien Fu_, he hates this old rock.

* * *

Author's note: So, how's this for a pilot chapter? Thoughts?  
I recently rewatched Firefly and Tracey got stuck in my head. Characters that tend to often mess up, always do get to me. So I thought it might be interesting to explore his character (whether he ends up being the hero or more of the anti-hero of his own story).


End file.
